I walked out of Mrs. Townsend’s office (perfectly normally, thank you) and skipped ceramics and went straight home to work on my paper until the feelings went away. Or at least until the feelings and me got some miles between us.
I cried because I have never been more scared in my life. I fear that Mrs. Townsend has a point. I envision a vague gray shape that is supposed to be my brain inside my head, but instead it’s this blob outside of me, empty, that I won’t be able to use.
And I’m tired.
It’s like, take my body, fine, I wasn’t really using it anyway. I’ve got this enormous butt on ostrich legs, the hair of a “before” picture, and weird milky brown eyes like a Frappuccino. But not my brain. My true connection to the world.
Why couldn’t I wither slowly and roam around on an automatic chair, spouting my brilliance through a voice box machine like Stephen Hawking?
Uggggghhh. Just thinking about it makes me—
g;sodfigs;ozierjgserg
I don’t know how else to say it right now. And I don’t like not knowing. Anything. I don’t like not knowing in general. I should always be able to know.
And that’s where you come in, Future Sam.
I need you to be the manifestation of the person I know I will be. I can beat this, I know I can, because the more I record for you, the less I will forget. The more I write to you, the more real you will become.
So: I’ve got a lot to do today. It’s Wednesday morning. I’ve got to read seven articles on living wage conditions. I’ve got to call Maddie and remind her to read these articles, too, because in her three-year tenure as my debate partner, she has had a terrible habit of “winging it” because she thinks she’s God’s gift to affirmative speeches. (She is, sometimes.) The dumb chickens still need to be fed. The window is cracked open. I smell dew and cool air coming off the Green Mountains. No one else in my house is up yet, but they will be soon. And look, the sun is rising. At least I know that.
FUTURE SAM
? goes by “Sam” or “Samantha”
? eats only nuts and berries
? wears fashionable glasses (or maybe contacts?) ? wears tailored outfits, only in solid neutrals, blue, or black ? laughs only on occasion and always in a low register ? gets cocktails every week with group of witty, professionally competent women ? reads the New York Times in bed in a soft white robe ? is recognized by people on the street and told that her op-ed on international development changed their life
CURRENT SAMMIE
? goes by “Sammie” because no one will adjust to addressing her as Sam—except for Davy, but with lisp it sounds like “Tham”
? eats anything put in front of her, including fake fruit by accident at a church function ? glasses are okay, just way too “gold” and “huge” and possibly disco ? wears whatever free school-function T-shirts haven’t been visibly slobbered on by one of the smaller organisms in the house ? laughs at SpongeBob and fart jokes even when stupid people make them (I can’t help it, it’s actually so funny) ? closest female friend is Maddie, but I’m not sure if we’re really friends or just that she and I spend so much time in the government classroom that we are friends by proxy, and between you and me, her ego is way too off the charts ? reads the New York Times at Lou’s when other people throw it out because Mom and Dad refuse to pay for it ? gets high fives from debate team, so at least that’s a start
WHAT MRS. TOWNSEND WAS PROBABLY LOOKING AT
From the NPC Wikipedia page: Neurological signs and symptoms include cerebellar ataxia (unsteady walking with uncoordinated limb movements), dysarthria (slurred speech), dysphagia (difficulty in swallowing), tremor, epilepsy (both partial and generalized), vertical supranuclear palsy (upgaze palsy, downgaze palsy, saccadic palsy or paralysis), sleep inversion, gelastic cataplexy (sudden loss of muscle tone or drop attacks), dystonia (abnormal movements or postures caused by contraction of agonist and antagonist muscles across joints); most commonly begins with turning of one foot when walking (action dystonia) and may spread to become generalized, spasticity (velocity-dependent increase in muscle tone), hypotonia, ptosis (drooping of the upper eyelid), microcephaly (abnormally small head), psychosis, progressive dementia, progressive hearing loss, bipolar disorder, major and psychotic depression; can include hallucinations, delusions, mutism, or stupor.
From Wikipedia, after I edited the NPC page: Your shit is fucked.
(Was taken down shortly after and all my Wiki editing privileges were suspended, but it was worth it.)
WHITE MALE PHILOSOPHERS WHO (BASED ON THEIR PORTRAITS) I/WE WOULD MAKE OUT WITH
? S?ren Kierkegaard: those lips
? René Descartes: I’ve never said no to a man with long hair
? Ludwig Wittgenstein: the coiffe, the straight nose, the sunken, knowing eyes
? Socrates: that beard though
SHAH DOLCE VITA
When I told you that this wouldn’t be feelingsy, I lied. You probably knew that, Future Sam, but maybe you’ve been able to put a lid on them by the time you read this.